


Breaking Point

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were many things I thought I knew about him. Watching him break down here in this too small room proves that assumption needs some serious examination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confessions

                I’ve been watching him for fully ten minutes now. It’s our first night back in school, and Malfoy and I got assigned to room together largely on account of no one really wanting to room with either of us. I woke to the sound of his voice, only not quite his. He is sleeping, if you could call writhing around the bed and whimpering being asleep. I tried waking him at first, but he screamed and slapped my hands away from him with enough force that I suspect I will be bruised in the morning. A few moments ago he began to use words, and every fiber of my soul wishes he would return to the incoherent whimpers from earlier.

                “Father… no… please stop…. I’ll be good… don’t hurt me… I’m sorry… please… be good boy now…please,” the words tumble out. He promises an invisible force that he will be good. The position he has ended up in is making it very difficult for me to delude myself into believing that he is reliving a childhood punishment for a misdeed. Spindly fingers are gripping the sheets and he has his knees tucked under him, backside in the air. Then the voice stops, and I can hear him dragging in panic breaths. I watch as he rolls onto his side and begins to shake.

                From my spot at the foot of the bed, I move closer to him, cautious, as though he were a newborn unicorn, easily spooked. I reach out for him and he stops me with a sharp glare. “Don’t touch me, Potter,” he hisses.

                “You were having a nightmare,” I tell him, and even I can see how pathetic it sounds. Surely he doesn’t need any reminder.

                “If you say so. Go back to you bed, Potter. I don’t want your help.” His harsh words are made less believable by the unsteady tone, and as he speaks he clasps both hands in front of him, as if tangling his fingers together will somehow make them behave. He’s shaking too hard for it to do much good, and the wild, terrified look in his eyes makes it nearly impossible to do as he asks.

                I rise slowly, moving closer to him along the side of the bed. He doesn’t speak again, just pulls his knees tightly to his chest and drops his head to them. He clasps his arms round his shins and as tall as he is, he becomes a tiny, tightly wound ball. I can hear his breathing, ragged and deliberate, as though he is fighting the very air for control. Before I can think better of it, I put a hand on his shoulder. He tenses up immediately. I’m not at all prepared for his next action.

                With speed I didn’t think him capable, he launches himself from the bed, fists flailing and knocks me to the floor. Blows rain down, and all I can think is how glad I am that Dudley taught me how to take a punch. I pull my arms up to protect my face and let him pound his fists into my shoulders and chest.  He is breathing hard, and I know he won’t be able to keep this up for long. When he stops, I remove my arms and look up at him. He is still straddling me, effectively pinning me in place. There is absolute horror in his eyes.

                I watch as a breath morphs into a sob, and tears begin to rain down his face. In a fluid movement that would have made a wrestling coach proud, I roll to a sitting position and wrap both arms tightly around him. He struggles for a second, then goes completely limp. There, on the cold floor of our dormitory room, I watch as Draco Malfoy breaks down in my arms.

                He is bawling, deep, wrenching sobs that echo off the walls and shake us both with their force. I surreptitiously cast a cushioning charm on the stones of the floor and try to figure out what to do next. I know how to handle Hermione or Ginny when they cry. I’ve even survived the tears of Ron and Charlie. But this, this is nothing like that. It’s as though Draco doesn’t know how to cry. He takes huge, gasping breaths and shudders as the tears rain down. It is messy and painful and I don’t know how to comfort him. He digs his own fingernails into his arms so hard, little pinpoints of blood appear. I put my hands over his, prying them loose and holding onto them to prevent him damaging himself further.  I realize how thin he is when I circle both wrists with one hand, leaving the other free to rub circles between his heaving shoulder blades.

                I know better than to attempt to talk to him. Nothing is going to penetrate the state he is in right now. I just continue holding his wrists and rubbing his back, hoping he understands that I am trying to protect him from himself. I have no idea how much time passes before he begins to quiet. Eventually, he is down to only the occasion shuddering breath and his tears have stopped. Somewhere along the way, he tucked his head against my shoulder, and he remains there now.   

                “Please talk to me,” I tell him, feeling him tense at the sound of my voice. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

                “No one can help me,” he whispers.

                “Try me.”

                “I’m damaged goods, Potter. Nothing you or anyone else can fucking do about it. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

                “What do you mean by damaged goods?”

                “I know I talk in my sleep, Potter. Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

                “Being abused doesn’t mean you’re damaged goods,” I countered. He stared at me for a moment before answering.

                “Taking it up the arse from my father does, Potter. No one is going to want to touch me. Not that they would to begin with.”

                “You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t deserve it. You were raped, Draco. It doesn’t change who you are or what you’re worth.”

                “I wasn’t worth anything to start with.”

                I want to shake him. I don’t know the right words to say. I’ve never been an eloquent person and sleep deprived in the middle of the night is not the best time to try for brilliant conversation at any rate.  “Listen very carefully, because I will not say this again. You are not damaged. You are not worthless. You are beautiful, and smart, and talented, and damned powerful. You survived things that most of us can’t imagine in our worst nightmares. You didn’t ask to be hurt. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You don’t deserve to punish yourself for things you had no control over.”

                When he speaks, it is so soft I have to strain to hear him. “What makes you so sure you know me?”

                I don’t think before the words are out of my mouth. “Vernon Dursley didn’t need to hex me to hurt me. You want to know why I don’t think you’re damaged goods? Because if you are, so am I, and I’m not willing to give any more of myself to that bastard than he already took.”

                I have never admitted that to anyone. Hermione and Ron know that I was essentially starved most summers. They know that I was used as slave labor. They know I was slapped and kicked and knocked around when I didn’t complete my chores fast enough or to their satisfaction. But no one knows that from the time I reached age 14, Vernon Dursley would unlock the door to my room at night and use me in whatever way he saw fit. I half expect the world to stop turning now that the truth is out there. Instead, a thin hand is laid along the side of my face, and I look into big grey eyes that I know completely understand the weight of that confession. He doesn’t speak, just watches me, and after a few moments, wraps his arms around me and holds on tight.

                He is shaking, and I wrap my arms around him and hold on just as tightly as he is clinging to me.  He is struggling to regain control of his breathing, and I’m doing my best to hold it together myself. I cannot believe I’ve just confessed the one thing I’ve managed to keep out of anyone’s awareness.  The only one to ever come close to knowing was Snape during Occlumency, and that wasn’t really very close at all. I hear him mumble an apology for having a go at me with his fists.

                “It’s alright. You didn’t hurt me,” I tell him quietly. He nods, repeating the apology, telling me he’s still sorry, even if he can’t throw a decent punch.

                “I’ve had plenty worse and lived to tell the tale, Draco. Don’t worry about it. We should probably get up soon, though. The floor is cold.”

                He pulls away, putting a hand against the edge of the bed for support as he pushes onto his feet. I stand up as well, and a moment too late, I reach out to grab for him when he loses his balance. I manage to catch him before he hits the ground, but only enough to shove him roughly onto his bed and land largely on top of him. I move away quickly, hoping that he isn’t prone to flashbacks. I saw Hermione once rather nearly throw Ron across the room when he startled her from behind.

                He is very, very still for a moment, and when I look at him I can see that he is a million miles away. “Draco,” I say softly, knowing better than to try to touch him. “Draco,” I repeat, a bit louder. He shakes his head and looks at me.

                “Fuck. I need a drink,” he mutters, and I get up and go to my trunk. I pull out a bottle of Muggle whisky.

                “I don’t have anything fancy, but it gets the job done,” I tell him as I hand it over. He doesn’t even look at the label. He just unscrews the top and drinks deeply. It’s more than obvious by his lack of reaction to the sharp taste of the stuff that he is no stranger to it.

                “Firewhisky hurts like a bitch going down,” he tells me. “I hate the stuff. Alcohol is one thing the Muggles get completely right.”

                If someone had told me those words would be coming out of that mouth, I would have fallen down laughing. As it is, I stare at him for long moments before taking the offered bottle and downing a few shots worth for myself. I pass it back and he drinks a bit more before replacing the lid. He flops back onto his pillow and without much thought I pull the sheets and quilt up over him. He’s so thin, I’m certain he chills easily. As I move my hands away, he grabs my wrist, spindly fingers holding on tight. “Stay,” he whispers, and I can see the effort behind keeping his voice from shaking. I sit down beside him, holding that thin hand and trying not to betray my utter shock when he moves a bit closer until he can lean his head against my hip. He holds out his hand for the whisky, and I give it to him. He drinks again, and when the bottle is returned a surprising amount is gone. He swallows convulsively, fighting a gag reflex that isn’t used to drinking the stuff so quickly. I’ve done the same too many times to count. I replace the lid and put the bottle on the side table, within reach if we want more. I begin running a hand through his hair, soothing him as best I can. His hand ends up on my knee, and his fingers are clutching tightly. 

                “You alright?” I ask him, and he shakes his head, his eyes closed tightly. Eventually, he tugs on my hand until I lie down beside him, and he wraps an arm around my waist, resting his head on my chest. I can feel him trembling, and wrap my arms around him a bit tighter, hoping to provide the comfort and security he so clearly needs. My shirt is damp and I know he had begun crying again, silent tears this time as he holds onto me and shakes. I don’t know what to say to him, this broken boy who has somehow taken the place of the pretentious git I thought I knew so well.


	2. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even magic can't fix everything.

                It’s early morning when I wake with Draco still asleep in my arms. He cried himself to sleep, tear tracks drying on his pale face as he snuffled periodically even after he was well out. I debate trying to slip out of the bed without waking him. I’ve no idea what to expect when he finds me here. We were both half drunk when we went to sleep.

                As though thinking about it were enough to wake him, he stirs just a bit, one hand latching onto my wrist and holding tightly. He is still resting on my shoulder, and as his eyes open I watch in an attempt to gauge his reaction. He stares at me for a moment, then closes them again. “Please tell me you have hangover draughts,” he mutters. I Summon one from my stash, popping the seal and handing it to him. He props himself up on an elbow and swallows it in one, grimacing at the taste. I watch as the tension fades from his forehead, and he opens his eyes again, this time looking calmly at me.

                “A few drops of peppermint oil would go a long way toward making that less vile, Potter,” he tells me, and I shrug.

                “You do know how horrid I am at potions, right? I buy it ready made.”

                He looks at me as though I’ve just told him I make it from stewed crup puppies. “Remind me to order supplies to make you a proper stash of potions,” he tells me, clearly horrified that I would trust a stranger to make my potions. I wonder if he realizes that most people do not, as Snape would have had us believe, create all their own potions.  

                We lapse into silence, both clearly trying to avoid discussing the hipppogriff in the room. I sit up, and without realizing it end up copying his position, knees to my chest and wrists crossed over my ankles. The defensive posture has always been my default, and as I watch him do the same I wonder how much it stems from the things I experienced at my uncle’s hands. He slouches a bit, chin resting on the tops of his knees, eyes focused on some invisible point on the covers. I realize after watching him for a moment that he is trembling very slightly.

                I barely think about it before scooting closer and reaching out to grasp one of his hands. The trembling increases, and his hand twitches in mine. “It’s alright,” I tell him, wondering what in the world I’ve done to frighten him. He shakes his head, staring at the hand as if willing it to stop. A moment later, the trembling stops, and he looks at me with an unreadable expression.

                “It’s not alright, Potter. As I believe I told you last night, it won’t be alright.”

                I’m fully prepared to launch into every reassurance I can come up with when he continues. “Have you ever heard of something called Parkinson’s Disease? It’s a mostly Muggle issue. Causes shaking and the like.”

                I nod. I vaguely remember an elderly neighbor having the condition when I was young.

                “Apparently, if one has enough repetitions of crucio in close conjunction with aggressive Legilimency, something very similar happens in a wizard’s brain. The connections misfire. Mother’s dragged me to every Healer still willing to treat a Malfoy. This is about as good as it’s going to get, or so they tell me. I shake. All the fucking time. Can barely hold a fucking quill some days. That’s why I didn’t want to come back here. Even if my wand wasn’t tracked, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself.”

                When he pauses and stares at me, I nod. I’m afraid that if I speak, whatever bizarre alignment of the planets is causing him to tell me this will break.

                “It makes it hard to walk, sometimes. I fall easily. One of the Healers suggested a cane. Mother threatened to hex him. So they gave me a potion to increase my awareness of the muscle movements. Which would be great, except it also causes panic attacks and flashbacks. Not so fantastic when your father is Lucius Malfoy, if you get what I mean. I’ve enough reasons for a mental breakdown without any assistance. Hence what you witnessed overnight. I can keep up adequate Occlumency during the day, but there’s not much I can do while sleeping.”

                He goes silent again, and I realize that the hand I am still holding has begun to shake again. Now that I know what it is, the shame in his eyes is painfully obvious. “Come here,” I tell him. He stares at me for a moment before leaning forward. I rearrange my legs so that he can lean up against me, and though he remains tightly hunched into his crouched position, he allows me to unclasp his hand and instead wrap my arms fully around him. After a few moments, I am aware of his breathing becoming irregular, his body tensing up in my arms.

                “I’ve got you,” I whisper, and he lets out a long, shaky breath.

                “For now,” he says, his voice barely there. I wish I could tell him something that would reassure him. I’ve been obsessed with him since I was barely eleven years old. In our 6th year, I was certain I could save him, stop him from doing whatever it was that was destroying him. I pulled every string and shred of influence I could muster when he went to trial over the summer. I threatened to publicly declare each and every Unforgiveable I had performed throughout that year if the Wizangamot dared to send him to Azkaban. Since no one really knew what I had done, no one wanted to know what crimes the Saviour had committed. They wouldn’t risk tarnishing their poster boy.

                I know that nothing I say is going to convince him that I won’t abandon him at the first opportunity. As I try to find the right words, I realize that his breathing is fast turning to hyperventilation. “Draco, look at me,” I tell him, my voice the best attempt at firm and commanding I can manage.

                He shakes his head, burying his face against me. I know that there are techniques for walking a person through this, for coaching breathing into a more natural pattern, for settling the racing thoughts to a manageable roar. I don’t have enough experience to risk trying it. Not with him. I’ve too good an idea the kinds of things his mind probably races to, and all I want to do is bring him back to himself as quickly as possible.

                I Summon one of the stronger draughts I keep on hand and tip it into his mouth. He swallows, his lips pressed into a thin line as he fights the awful aftertaste. It’s bitter and just plain foul, but I know it works, and fast. Mere seconds pass before the terror fades from his expression. I know the effects of the potion will hold for several hours.

                “I’ve got you for as long as you’ll have me,” I tell him, and he lifts his head to look at me, his expression disbelieving.

                “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Potter.”

                I manage to bite my tongue before I tell him that what I want to get into is him. Instead, I look into his eyes and say the words I never, ever expected to hear out of my mouth. “Legilimize me. I’m a crap Occlumens. Will that be enough to make you believe me?”

                “Tracked wand, Potter. I can’t.”

                “Use mine,” I tell him, Summoning it and handing it over. He looks at me as though he’s ready to send me off to the Janus Thickey ward for a moment and then he casts the spell. I allow full access, not bothering to even attempt a shield. He doesn’t go digging, I doubt he wants to know details of my childhood any more than I want to relive them. Instead, he stays at the surface, examining my motives. When he withdraws, he hands the wand back to me and the tremor that I see in his hand makes me wonder if his spellwork suffers as well. So many things require such precision. I cannot imagine that he’s able to perform the more complex transfigurations or even most of the N.E.W.T. level charms work. It’s no wonder he’s so unhappy to be here.

                “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

                I’m not sure what the appropriate answer is, and so I hold him as he settles back against me. “We should get ready for classes soon,” I say after a few minutes have passed. He nods, and the tension is back, his body stiffening up immediately.

                “Tell me what you need,” I say softly, reaching for his hand.

                “More whisky,” he mutters.

                “Pretty sure being pissed in class isn’t going to work out very well,” I tell him. “Get through the day and I’ll provide anything you want, though.”

                “Promise?” he asks. I nod and he smiles at me, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve a deal, then,” he tells me. He pulls away from me and climbs off the bed, putting a hand against the mattress for a moment as he checks his balance. Now that I am watching for it, I am suddenly aware of all the little movements that compensate for the disorientation and constant trembling. He holds his arms and hands stiffly at his sides as he moves in an effort to keep the shaking down.  He stumbles a little on his way to gather his shower things from his wardrobe, and I jump up to grab him, wrapping both arms around him and holding him upright.

                “I’m not an invalid,” he mutters.

                “The floor is made of fucking stone, Draco. I’m not interested in hauling you to Pomfrey because you’ve managed to break yourself walking to the shower.”

                I realize the mistake I’ve made as he spins in my grasp and glares at me. “I. Am. Not. Fucking. Helpless.” He practically spits the words at me. The rapid shifts between needy and outright hateful are going to give me whiplash, but I don’t loosen my grip on him.

                “Would you prefer to hit the floor and shatter a wrist? You’re skin and bones. You said yourself that you fall easily. I’m going to guess it’s worse when you’ve been still for a while, so it stand to reason that you’re less steady in the mornings. Now get off your fucking Prince Malfoy act and accept that I’m trying to take care of you here, whether you want to admit you need it or not.” He sags in my arms, and takes a shaky breath. It’s clear I’ve hit a nerve.

                “M’not supposed to need help,” he whispers.

                “I know,” I tell him, and the connection forged in our shared experiences as children is cemented further by the knowledge that despite the extreme differences in our upbringings, we were both taught from the cradle that we were not allowed to need. Ever. I stand there with him in my arms, one hand clasped in his as he slowly calms himself from the verge of a breakdown. I know without question that his fragile dignity will not allow more tears to fall, and so I hold him close as he fights them with shallow breaths and clenched teeth.

                When his breathing eases, I keep an arm draped behind him to hold him steady and summon both of our shower things. “How do you feel about the rumor mill today?” I ask him. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Would it be better for me to help you as a friend, or for us to share a shower as lovers?” I clarify, and the eyebrow shoots nearly into his hairline.

                “Potter,” he finally says, “someone really ought to address your concept of dating etiquette. One generally at least spends a bit of time snogging before progressing to the lovers stage.”

                “Alright. You’re hot, I’m bent, and we’re conveniently slated to share a room for the next nine months. Unfortunately, you have night terrors that land you in hellish flashbacks and I dream about cemeteries, snake eyed bastards, and Muggles with far too much power for my own good. If I wait until the pair of us are comfortable with doing anything that qualifies as being lovers, the rumor mill with have both of us pregnant and bonded by way of some ancient curse conveniently resurrected to make our last year of school exciting in the absence of Voldemort. So, lovers or friends, you pick but I’m not planning to take my hands off you until you can walk without stumbling every third step and I am most assuredly not leaving you on your own in the damn shower to concuss yourself or worse.”

                When I finish, the eyebrow is firmly wedged in the hairline and his mouth is practically gaping. Thankfully my absurd tirade served its purpose though, as his mouth crinkles up in a smirk and he laughs at me. “Point. Lovers it is, then,” he says, and grasps one of my hands in his. “Now come on. I’m not going to explain to any of my professors and more definitely not Flitwick, that I am late for class because my highly overprotective lover wouldn’t let me bathe!”

                I nod, and follow him out of the room and to the communal showers. One would have thought that giving us rooms with toilet closets might have included providing accommodations for private bathing, but that would have been too easy. We still have huge rooms of stone and open showers. Seamus Finnegan is on his way out when we walk in. He looks at us for a moment and laughs, “Took you two long enough,” he says. Draco looks mortified and I practically drag him along to the wall of showers. I flip on the taps and strip out of my clothes as Draco does the same. I try not to worry when he plants a hand against the wall to steady himself.

                “Seamus is harmless,” I tell him as I duck my head under the spray. “He’s been sharing a bed with Dean Thomas since 4th year.”

                “I’m neither an idiot nor blind, Potter,” Draco shoots back. Of course he would have known about those two. Everyone but me seemed to. It had come as one hell of a shock when I found Ginny, Dean, and Seamus having a go one evening early in my 6th year. A dull thud distracts me from my woolgathering and I realize that he has dropped his shampoo bottle. A quick check tells me that both hands are shaking violently, and he has both eyes utterly focused on the floor. I manage to stifle the urge to just pick it up and wash his hair for him and watched as he kneels, carefully picking up the bottle and then placing one palm flat on the floor as he struggles to get back up. When the slippery stone floor caused his hand to shift, I gave up on trying to not to be overbearing. I kneel quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him upright.

                He doesn’t object, just leans against me and lets me hold him up as he washes his hair and rinses off. I keep an arm wrapped around him until he is finished and the water is off. I notice the slight shimmer of a redirection charm around the doorway to the shower room and make silent note to thank Seamus for that. Draco sits on one of the low benches, a towel around his shoulders and his elbows on his knees. “Tell me what to do,” I instruct quietly.

                “It will pass,” he replies. “Just a bit dizzy. Happens sometimes. Just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”

                I nod and sit beside him, not touching him but making certain he knows I am right there. After a few minutes, he sits upright and pushes himself to standing. I follow him to the sinks, where we brush our teeth before returning to our room. We dress in silence and gather our morning school things. After the fourth time he drops something or another while attempting to put it in his bag, I take it from him and load the quills, ink, and books for him. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed this the day before while we were unpacking and then realized that by the time I had made it to the room, Draco had long been finished.

                “Mornings are bad,” he says softly. “It’s manageable by midday, most days. I’m going to be a fucking disaster in Charms.”

                “Do the professors know what’s going on?” I ask him. He nods.

                “Mother insisted. So yes, all of our professors know how pathetic I will be.” He looks on the verge of a complete breakdown, and I want desperately to find a way to fix this for him. What good is magic, I wonder, if it cannot repair the damage from abuse sustained when he was barely more than a child?

                I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. He buries his face against me and his ragged breathing tells me that any words would probably break him at this point. I don’t speak, just hold him tight and wait while he calms himself once more. When he pulls away, I watch him withdraw his wand from the little holder on his forearm and cast a few simple Glamours to hide the slightly puffy eyes. He takes hold of my hand and we head out of the room, bags slung over our shoulders filled with the trappings of innocent schoolboys I doubt we ever were.


	3. Three

Charms class is, as predicted, an utter and complete disaster. Draco’s hand shakes and his wand movements are so imprecise that he is rather nearly a hazard. At one point, I end up grabbing him from behind a half second before his legs give out beneath him, taking all of his weight and basically carrying him to a chair. His face is ashen from the effort of trying to keep himself upright, and a sheen of sweat covers his brow. He pants against me as I hold him upright in the chair, gulping down ragged breaths and shaking all over. I can feel the stares of our classmates, hear the whispered speculations. Blessedly, Flitwick begins a rapid fire round of review that takes most of the attention off us after a few moments.

“Draco, do I need to get you out of here?” I ask him quietly. The trembling of his body has increased steadily as I’ve held him, and his teeth are chattering against one another as he clutches my arms for support.

“Can’t move,” he whispers. 

“I’ve got you,” I try to reassure him, running my hands up and down his heaving back as he struggles to breathe. 

“Stun me,” he whispers softly. “Can’t stop shaking. Hurts so much, please. It’s the only thing that works.” It takes an agonizingly long time for him to stammer out those few sentences, and I grasp my wand and recite the incantation, feeling him go limp in my arms. I am barely aware of the class being dismissed and Professor Flitwick coming to stand beside us.

“Mr. Potter,” he squeaks, “What happened?”

“I’m not sure exactly. He asked me to stun him. I did. He says it’s the only thing that works when it gets this bad.”

“Do you know if all mornings are this difficult for Mr. Malfoy?”

I nod my answer, shifting Draco in my arms to a more comfortable position as he begins to stir. His eyes flutter open and he stares up at me. “I’ve got you,” I tell him quietly, and he nods, closing them once more and breathing slowly and deeply against me. 

We stay there for a long while, Draco’s breath warm against me as he rests. When he pulls away, he looks at me with a calm, resigned expression. “I can’t do this,” he says, and the pain in his voice is obvious. Professor Flitwick places a small hand on his.

“Certainly not in the mornings, my boy,” he tells him, and Draco looks at the floor, shoulders hunching in shame.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says quietly.

“No need to apologize,” the tiny Professor says, and Draco looks up again. “It’s a simple enough fix. Evening lessons, my boy. You and Mr. Potter here will be entering independent study as of today. No classes before noon, if that would do to make a difference for you. I’ll contact the Headmistress and get it arranged. A simple fix, really. Neither of you need worry about it. Can’t have Mr. Malfoy here collapsing in class, can we? And Mr. Potter, it’s a wonder you didn’t manage to harm someone, what with all your attention on Mr. Malfoy. No, no, safer for everyone if you study independently with me in the afternoons. Transfigurations as well, I think. Perhaps Potions? I’ll contact Horace and Minerva. Mr. Malfoy? Are you alright?”

Draco was shaking again, and a careful examination made it clear that he was fighting against tears. I grabbed him, holding him close against me and whispering softly to him, telling him it was alright, that everything would be fine. Professor Flitwick seemed to understand, and scurried off to discuss the change in our schedules with the other practical instructors. Draco stayed pressed against me for ages, his breathing uneven and labored as he tried to keep himself in check. Finally, he was calm once more and I helped him to his feet. 

“I think we should get you to bed,” I told him. He nodded, clearly exhausted. I wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him and we made our way back to our room. I settled him into the bed, pulling the covers up over him and petting his hair until he drifted off, reassuring him when he asked that I would remain in the room with him until he woke. He didn’t stir again until nearly four in the afternoon. 

When he woke, he did so slowly, one hand clinging to mine as he pushed himself upright. When I asked him what he needed, he told me what medications to retrieve from his trunk. He swallowed the various potions, clamping a hand over his mouth when one made him retch. I offered him a tumbler of hastily conjured water, which he gulped down, eyes watering and throat working furiously to keep the potions down. His hands were mostly still, and I began to understand how he had been able to hide this from people. 

“Pansy will have worried herself into a complete fit by now,” he murmurs as he hauls himself off the bed. His movements are still a little slow, a little labored, but he seems a thousand times more steady than he did this morning. “Did you hear from Flitwick about the class changes?”

“Yes. We’re to report to Transfiguration with McGonnagal after dinner three times a week. Charms will be at one twice a week. Potions twice a week at three in the afternoon. The rest of our classes are mostly theory based, but we don’t have anything scheduled before noon now. Will that be better for you?”

“Much. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Too focused on trying to prove I could handle it, I suppose,” he says quietly. 

I move closer to him and put a hand on his narrow waist. “You don’t have to prove anything,” I tell him. He shrugs. If nothing else, he knows when it’s pointless to argue with me. “So, Pansy? I take it we need to hunt her down and let her know you’re still among us?”

“More like find her and hope like hell she doesn’t hex me for sheer bull-headedness. She’s been ranting about asking for accommodations from the moment I told her I was coming back here.”

“Well then, might as well get it over with,” I tell him. He nods and I take his hand to help him to his feet. He brushes off the arm I try to wrap around his waist when he falters, glaring at me for a moment.

“I’m not going to fall to pieces, Harry,” he says, and his voice is calm and controlled. I nod my admission, still on the alert should he need anything as I follow him out of the room and down to the common area to hunt down Pansy. By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, the vulnerability is gone from his face, replaced with perfect control. 

“Go on, I’ve got this on my own,” he tells me. I don’t want to leave him, have somehow become irrationally attached in the span of a few days. Some small, still rational part of me realizes that this is not healthy, and so I do as I’m told, heading to the table where Hermione and Ron are settled with a pile of textbooks as Draco moves to the opposite end of the room to the sofa where Pansy is practically holding court. I watch him go, marveling at the change between this morning and now. It may take me a lifetime to truly understand the workings of the enigma he is. Somehow, I don’t mind spending the time to figure it out.


End file.
